


Anima

by SonataForMyOverdosedLover



Series: And in her arms he'd kill the Maker, each time, a little more [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, a story depicted in moments, of faith and blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:46:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3182567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonataForMyOverdosedLover/pseuds/SonataForMyOverdosedLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It felt as if carved stones could express more compared to this woman made of flesh and bone. Cold as they were, the statues in the Chantry held more liveliness in their petrified forms. And yet, they would in no way be able to seek the thinnest places of his faith and seed doubt, the way her amber eyes had done that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anima

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of moments, words, gestures, glances and touches. They made no good story for Varric to write. In order to write a story you need a strong beginning, a happy middle, and a memorable ending. They couldn't agree on a beginning, there was no middle way for either of them, and they would not accept an end.

Mornings in Haven were cold. He didn't mind. If anything he welcomed the chilling sensation each time he’d wake up and make his way to their improvised training ground. It was terribly early and the fog had not cleared yet. He wasn't expecting much fret at that hour as Haven was just coming back to life. Sleep would abandon him too soon. A habit he had developed in Kirkwall. But unlike Haven, his room from the City of Chains was warm and his days methodical and repetitive. His new location was austere but he felt no need for anything outside of what the place could provide. Occasionally he’d miss the taste of a better tea instead of the hot flavored water they had here but it was nothing he couldn't get used to. Coming from a numerous family, he had never asked for much in life. He used to believe good things happened to good people, and he considered himself lucky in spite of everything that he had witnessed.

He stepped outside the gates, content to see that the soldiers were also waking up and clearing the snow that the wind had brought during night. After walking down the set of stoned stairs his eyes scouted the relatively deserted area around him. The stables were in poor condition, if they could be called stables at all. With no horses, the broken fence was of no immediate importance to anyone. They were in desperate need of mounts but he had no success in obtaining an agreement with that stubborn horsemaster from Redcliffe to supply the Inquisition with some of his Forders. Those damned horses would ease the travel for their parties.

Speaking of which, he was pleasantly surprised to see the Seeker stepping out from the blacksmith’s workshop. She was heavily dressed in full armor and equipped with her shield and sword. As she looked up their eyes met and she greeted him with her traditional solemn nod, waiting for him to reach her.

“So early, Seeker? I did not expect to find you here.”

“Yes, well, to be completely honest, I don’t know how you’re doing it every day. I am an early person myself but being up at this time each morning is simply ridiculous.”

The man let out a breezed laughter. “You get used to it in time. Plus, mornings are kinder to me when I am not sleeping.”

Her usually hard expression softened for an instant with sympathy and what could have been regret at even opening the subject. He wished she wouldn't. There was nothing regrettable about his situation.

“We’re leaving for the Hinterlands soon. I’m checking on the last preparations because Maker knows what we’ll find once we get there.” The woman turned to look back, inside the atelier. He followed her actions and his eyes easily found the herald and Leliana among the few people sheltered under the roof. The woman was currently listening to whatever their Spymaster was explaining to her as she was fastening a belt around her hips. Her instincts were sharp as she instantly became aware that she was being watched. She looked up and out of habitude he nodded his head. The woman did not return the gesture, but held his gaze a moment longer in the most unreadable fashion.

When her attention was away he frowned. “I've seen statues in the Chantry more expressive than her.”

He couldn't decide what had surprised him more: that the warrior actually found his words humorous or the fact that he had actually spoken his thoughts out loud. 

“If you had seen the way she growled not moments ago at one of Harritt’s apprentices you’d be more appreciative of her lack of expressions.”

But they had to stop from venturing further into the subject as the woman was on her way to them, gloves and gauntlets in her hands. 

“You do know you need better armor? Harritt’s quite good with his crafts but lacks proper materials; a boy with a stick could probably pierce half of the things they make here.”

Cassandra was well aware of it and did not enjoy being reminded. 

“We’re working on it.”

“Cassandra, a word, please…” Leliana’s voice called from inside the shelter and the woman obliged, retreating into a more private conversation with the Spymaster and leaving the two in an uneasy silence. But it very well could have been just him since the woman was more preoccupied with keeping the gauntlets under her armpit as she was slipping the gloves on. Involuntarily, he searched for her palm and caught a glimpse of the mark right before the leather could shelter it from his prying eyes. In an instant he looked away, feeling as if he had witnessed something most intimate. His actions did not escape her

“You don’t have to avert your eyes; it’s not going to swallow you up if you stare for too long.”

He always preferred to be sincere even if that made him look foolish.

“It seemed personal.”

The woman sighed a bit bored.

“It’s nothing more than an accident.”

“It’s Andraste’s mark and our only way to stop those rifts from spreading.”

Her eyelids lowered heavily but she proceeded to strap the gauntlets on her arms.

“You’d say that, wouldn’t you?” To him, her musing voice did not match the way she looked at him not moments ago. “Maybe I should simply cut my hand and give it to you for safekeeping since it’s clearly very important.”

Her mockery told him that it was time to back away from the subject before more unnecessary insults could be thrown. Antagonizing her would gain him nothing.

“Whatever it is, it is not a joke.”

She continued her work without a word. He was about to move away from the matter when he saw her plum lips line in an unpleasant, almost unnoticeable smile. With that unreadable expression she looked up and watched him in silence as her hands were continuing their job blindly but efficiently. He felt his jaw clench under her scrutinizing eyes and was aware of how they traveled on his face, taking in every detail. He had never met such boldness in a person, even more so in a woman, and considered her act extremely rude and inappropriate. He knew where to place it – he had met enough nobles to recognize the lack of shame they had when invading someone’s personal area of comfort. And when he thought she was simply doing it for her own amusement and judgment, the woman talked again.

“I have a curiosity.” 

They always did; and it was almost always followed by an insulting question. She brought her arm up and gripped one of the leather straps with her teeth, helping herself with the knot but also taking an unnecessary long time in doing so, intentionally prolonging the waiting period. She stared directly at him but he could not read anything in her amber-like eyes.

“How does a Templar walk away from The Order? I thought it was an ‘until death’ condition.”

He thought of an immediate answer but something in her voice made him keep his guard up. 

“We are not tied to the titles and it’s not uncommon for a Templar to leave. As it is, there are enough reports of Templars currently deserting and abandoning the Chantry.”

Her insinuating smile became even more visible as she proceeded to the other gauntlet. “But does a Templar truly stop being a Templar?”

He frowned and her smile dropped as she continued in a lower tone. “With all the lyrium pumped into their system by the Chantry, can a Templar be anything else?” she made a pause and continued with a roll of her eyes “besides… dead or a complete wreck.” 

He felt the taste of blood in his mouth before he could realize he had bitten into his cheek. 

Her attention finally returned to her arms, tugging everything into position. 

“A Templar is his trust and faith in the Maker and his purpose to the Order, not his addiction to lyrium.”

“No – trust and faith usually make a Cleric, add in the lyrium and you get a fanatical army.” 

“You don’t like the Templars very much, do you?” 

“I can’t sympathize, no. Why would anyone sacrifice their mind for faith in something that they can’t even prove it exists, is beyond my power of understanding.”

At this point he felt annoyance building up inside and sighed, looking away in an attempt to find peace in the snow covered hills. He cursed his habit when he realized that his hand had long found its way to the hilt of his sword. 

“For someone who doesn't recall how she stepped out of the Fade, you are very dismissing of the idea of divine help.”

She let her arms fall and turned her head so that she could look at him directly. “Food for thought – I don’t owe anything to your Maker, so why should I start believing in him now?”

Whatever his thoughts were, they were wiped away by her dry words. He turned his head to mimic her intentions and immediately regretted it. Carved stones could indeed be more expressive than the woman in front of him, but they would in no way be able to seed doubt in the darkest corners of your faith. 

Leliana went past them addressing the herald without even stopping.

“Please do not share any of your thoughts on this matter unless absolutely necessary. We don’t want to make it easier for the Chantry to take us down.” 

The woman arched an eyebrow as she watched the Spymaster walk away towards the gate, greeting Solas and Varric on her way.

“I don’t think she likes me.”

He had to bite his tongue in order to keep his thoughts to himself. 

“I guess we’ll be taking our leave now that Varric finally decided to honor us with his presence.” Cassandra glared at the dwarf.

“Don’t talk to me Seeker. I am still sleeping until this fog clears.” The fact that Varric was unhappy with the early hour was perfectly hearable in his voice. The woman decided to ignore him and Cullen caught her eyes as she addressed him.

“I hope things will not get out of hand while we are away. Is there anything else we should look into, Commander?”

The herald was also eyeing him expectedly.

“Actually there is one matter I was considering this morning. Our men in the Hinterlands have made contact with a certain Master Dennet of the Redcliffe farms. He has exemplary Fereldan Forders but is unwilling to send them to us. If you could find an agreement, it would really benefit the Inquisition.”

“Horses, right. I get the whole closing rifts, fighting demons and looking for allies but I don’t remember signing up for running errands as well.” The indignation in her voice was almost cutting. 

“None of us signed for anything that is happening right now in this world.” Cullen considered how Cassandra sounded irritated by the woman’s attitude, but not revolted. He did not envy her at that moment – stuck for days with Varric, of whom she did not approve, and dealing with a clearly hostile but otherwise indispensable agent, made him fully sympathize with her. 

“Fine, I’ll get your horses in between picking flowers for Leliana.” 

Cullen side-glanced the warrior but Cassandra beat him to it with a clear ‘don’t ask’ attitude. They were actually content when the woman put her body in motion, ready to join the two men ahead of them. But she was stopped by the familiar voice of their Antivan Ambassador.

“Ser Trevelyan! Oh, what a relief that you have not departed yet!”

The herald turned around and it was instantly clear that her next words would not be kind. 

“Lady Montilyet! Don’t tell me, you have a request as well. Why don’t you people just write down a list the next time I leave? What is it? Something you need from the Redcliffe Market? Though I rather doubt businesses are opened these days.”>

Cullen saw the enthusiasm slowly dying on Josephine’s face, replaced by confusion and embarrassment, as her previous running transformed into an unsure walk until she could stop closer to them. 

“I was actually hoping I could give you something you might find useful on your –” 

“ – oh.” The hostility in the woman’s position completely vanished as she approached her. 

Still unsure, and clearly freezing as she had probably ran all the way there without considering that her usual attire was not made for the weather, she extended the wrapping in her arms and tried her best to remove the cloth. 

“You remember marquis DuRellion; he left yesterday for Val Royeaux with his trading goods. He had this in his possession and I figured he wouldn't have much use of it besides selling it. After our last talk I thought it might benefit you more…” she paused as she revealed a Chevalier Dagger “in hopes that I was not too presumptuous.”

If he had to describe the expression on the woman’s face as she took the dagger and brought it to her eye level to analyze it, he would use the word interest; or something very similar. 

Her eyes finally lightened up with appreciation. “The blade could use a bit of sharpening, but this is definitely of better quality than everything else around here.”

If anything she seemed to never be short on insults. He didn't need to turn to know that Harritt had probably spit on the ground and barely held in a swear.

When she suddenly started swinging the dagger Josephine had to jump back, unprepared for the gesture. 

Content, the woman grabbed one of the daggers on her back and threw the blade, sticking it perfectly vertical into the ground, replacing its spot with the new weapon. She was about to turn and leave but stopped as if remembering something.  
It made Cullen feel uncomfortable how sudden her entire body started to speak in a language of its own; long gone was the statuesque impression when the woman grabbed Josephine’s hand; cupping it gently as if it was made of glass in her own, she leaned in, so that the only distance left between their faces was enough to fit their hands. The way her eyes locked on the ambassador’s and the prolonged touch of her lips as she kissed the back of her hand transformed the cordial gesture into an almost erotic display. 

Eventually she stepped away in a bowing fashion, keeping her eyes on Josephine a moment too long.

“Much appreciated, Lady Montilyet.”

He watched her take her leave and Cassandra follow after an unnecessary shared silence. 

His eyes followed the group until the road took them out of sight. Out of habitude he prayed for their safety and good news upon their return. 

Only when he felt Josephine move he remembered he was not alone. He watched her slowly regain her voice.

“It’s an … unusual warm day in Haven, isn't it, commander?”

She did not wait for an answer as she nodded abruptly and almost sprinted back towards the gates. 

It was in fact, an extremely cold morning, but there was no need to make the ambassador feel more uncomfortable than she already was. 

He preferred it that way. The cold kept him awake and focused. As his eyes roamed on the empty road he allowed his mind to travel one more time at the woman that not long ago, daringly had held his gaze. She did not belong to the cold; like Josephine, her presence in this snowy place felt too exotic and atypical. But she possessed a suffocating air which was drying him out. In the cold that reminded him of his faith she was a thirsting blasphemy.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment of the series I am working on. It's nothing planned. Hopefully the entries will be chronological. It's made of small encounters or moments that brought Lady Trevelyan and the Commander together. As a small disclaimer, I am following the path of my Inquisitor, Jesebel Trevelyan. She is, better described, a machiavellian ruler. She is the sort of Inquisitor that will do the right choices but take a darker, levelheaded decision. I started creating the character even since there was enough information on how the game will be; by the time the game was out she already had a background story and I was happy that I could keep it unchanged throughout the game. I am planning to unfold that story as I go with this series. Also, before having the chance to advance with the gameplay I always thought my Inquisitor will go for a romance with Josephine... but as it happened with my Shepard from Mass Effect, the character ended up having a mind and preferences of its own. There was nothing going on between her and Cullen for the first part of my story besides doubtful curiosity but somewhere along the line that changed. I am really trying to put that into words and make the changes visible with each entry. All that you will read here are ideas that developed on my head as the game rolled on. Nonetheless, if you have questions, suggestions or feedback, please write them down! I am writing as a hobby and I am constantly trying to polish my skills. Sincerely, anything from critical feedback to ideas or opinions, let them down. What I love about the game is the diversity of Inquisitors everyone has. I am literally in love with each inquisitor people create and I can't have enough of them :) I hope you will enjoy the reading! cheers!


End file.
